10:15 on a Friday Night
After I've been reading on the screen for a long time my eyes begin to sting and that is when I know I should climb in bed and shut down for the day. Sometimes this happens early, sometimes it happens late.
All in all this has been a sluggish week, after the huge holiday for last week things are still to gather their normal pace. Homework has been a bore (mind you a non-existant one that causes me no amount of guilt), school is moving awkwardly, but mostly things are going as cheerfully dull as they do nowadays. I am happy that way.
Lorena is going to Peru next week and I, along with the Drama group, am going to the Festival Cervantino for a couple of days if all goes well.
Considering how disgustingly irresponsible I have proven to be this week, I had better get moving or I might die of guilt before getting one step into Guanajuato.
I suppose that was what was bugging me yesterday after having woken up after six hours of sleep. I hadn't done anything, had all sorts of small pesky homeworks to complete, had a project and a Statistics guide and I felt like doing nothing.
No wait in fact, I don't feel like doing nothing. I feel like working on my own stuff but prioritizing has taken its toll on my sense of responsability.
I got home at about 10 pm tonight after spending the afternoon with my friends and watching the movie Resident Evil: Apocalypse. On the way home the rain turned into a flood and by the time the bus dropped me off where I usually take my taxi the thing had developed into a disaster of biblical proportions. The streets were overflowing with rain, it seemed like someone was throwing buckets of water over our collective heads and I was wearing jeans and a wool sweater. After waiting on the curb for a taxi for some fifteen minutes I was feeling more like a drowned rat than anything that vaguely resembed a human.
I decided the wisest course of action was to head for the McDonald's until the Lord felt like humoring me.
Getting soaking wet is a strange thing, a strange liberating thing. There is a moment in which you simply stop worrying about the clothing, your health or the fact that you just stuck your foot into half a metre of water. I guess it's all part of the process that makes raining my favorite climate. Looking into the streets and the blurred lights between the wet locks of my hair. It gets personal there. I could say the same thing about buses, about bridges. It's something between loneliness and the universal.
I left my bagpack in Alan's car, fortunately my Statistics homework is at home. God I know not how I will get the will that this work requires. I should also start with the whole Math and Physics studying but it ends up being such a bore.
I just don't know.
I was thinking about Dante on the way home. I was thinking of the many drawings I wish I could get done, about guns and about a certain scene that occured to me. I am wondering how to fit it into Messiah and into all the work I am trying to get done.
I left my Phantom of the Opera inside my bag, inside Alan's car. I suppose it'll help me concentrate on Psychology and Philosohpy for the weekend.
Plato's Banquet was gorgeous. God if there is anything I can say about my life lately is the beautiful things I have been reading. "Ensayo sobre la Ceguera", "Phantom of the Opera", "Plato's Banquet" and just about everything else, including the psychology articles.
Getting late, getting heavy, getting harder to breathe. Remember to do this and that, remember to... I don't, not really.
Thank God this entry is over.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
I am thinking. I repeat it to myself, over and over again, everyday, because it's importance never ceases to amaze me. Each day that you live is worth recording, each day has a fragment of truth, of the whole that is life, of the whole that is human history.
So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.
One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.
There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.
I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.
So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.
One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.
There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.
I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Raining
It has been long enough since I last wrote here. Much of this time I have spent stressfully gathering the remains of my life in Santa Cruz and transferring them back to Mexico.
I am at an internet cafe, with little to do, in my family's hometown. I wait for the rain to cease.
There is a wonderful symmetry about it, how the calm can return and I can write again, because it was long ago (or maybe not so) that I thought, only pain can bring the artist in me, only sorrow can make the world worth it. But life is back where it should , even though the last months have been quite stressful and relating all that DID happen would be too much.
I've started school again, with a very good chance of actually pulling through despite all the revalidation issues.
I've started realizing that the normality in life that had been so precious to me in Santa Cruz can be kept, can remain. That I can still love school and my mother and try and be responsible. That I can do... maybe whatever I want to do.
Except writing. I've been drawing so much lately that it's frustrating, because I know and the world knows that in reality my true talent lies in the written word. An other thing I have been doing a lot of lately is reading, which might do something to explain why I can't seem to get any thoughts out. For know it's a process of getting thoughts in.
I like working and I like being here, this town is... well perfect for deep thought, perfect for working. Nothing to interrupt the steady flow of the greater conciousness. Nothing to disturb me. and I do thank my mother for bringing me, even though she thinks I don't.
I'll try to keep writing of whatever catches my fancy here, because there are little things of the past months I still have to tell, whenever they come to me. Just knwo I remember I went to see The Cure in concert, and I had the urge to write how important that was for me, how ery very important music is to me and what it means and what it is.
It'll have to wait, it's getting late and cold, and it looks like the rain.
Till later.
It has been long enough since I last wrote here. Much of this time I have spent stressfully gathering the remains of my life in Santa Cruz and transferring them back to Mexico.
I am at an internet cafe, with little to do, in my family's hometown. I wait for the rain to cease.
There is a wonderful symmetry about it, how the calm can return and I can write again, because it was long ago (or maybe not so) that I thought, only pain can bring the artist in me, only sorrow can make the world worth it. But life is back where it should , even though the last months have been quite stressful and relating all that DID happen would be too much.
I've started school again, with a very good chance of actually pulling through despite all the revalidation issues.
I've started realizing that the normality in life that had been so precious to me in Santa Cruz can be kept, can remain. That I can still love school and my mother and try and be responsible. That I can do... maybe whatever I want to do.
Except writing. I've been drawing so much lately that it's frustrating, because I know and the world knows that in reality my true talent lies in the written word. An other thing I have been doing a lot of lately is reading, which might do something to explain why I can't seem to get any thoughts out. For know it's a process of getting thoughts in.
I like working and I like being here, this town is... well perfect for deep thought, perfect for working. Nothing to interrupt the steady flow of the greater conciousness. Nothing to disturb me. and I do thank my mother for bringing me, even though she thinks I don't.
I'll try to keep writing of whatever catches my fancy here, because there are little things of the past months I still have to tell, whenever they come to me. Just knwo I remember I went to see The Cure in concert, and I had the urge to write how important that was for me, how ery very important music is to me and what it means and what it is.
It'll have to wait, it's getting late and cold, and it looks like the rain.
Till later.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Nothing more than the ordinary
I've had this window opened and ready almost two hours now and the words simply refuse to form. Maybe becuase I am still slightly afraid, becuase I am still gathering and forming and holding this resolve to me. Perhaps because there are so many things to say today, so many things and so different that I know not what to say first.
Something worth writing happens every single day of your life, something extraordinary, spectacular and beautiful. Something... worth writing.
Life has been blissfully calm these last few months and I have struggled to find the meaning in that calm, to find it's own particular light. Now I have something, something that is painful and harsh and ugly to write about.
I have a girlfriend. Her name is Marissa. Do I love her? Not particularily. I like her very much, I enjoy laughing and spending time with her. But what made me say "yes" this Fiday to the "Are you dating?" questions was a far more selfish reason. I wanted to know. I wanted to experiment. I've been considering bisexuality for a long time now, some two years I think. I've never actually had a girlfriend, never kissed a woman and never particularily desired any of my close friends.
This is harshly enough, an experiment, one that I was happy to make. With that feeling of accomplishment and hope I told my mother.
It didn't come out as a surprise to her, my doubts hadn't been a secret and she had never even given me a clue of what this would do to her.
She was griefed, she was in pain, she told me I had shattered her heart. It did not happen at the same time but through the night she made it perfectly clear.
My mother isn't a prejudiced person. She has gay and bisexual friends and loves and respects them. My mother is a rational womand and I always thought a strong one. Whenever someone was wrong in this house it was almost exclusively me. I was the wild one, the irrational one. I was the young thing that had much to learn about the world and herself.
In years this is the first time that my mother has been dead wrong, has been unjust and horrible, has been weak and disappointed me. And at the same time it wasn't. I love her, and though it hurts me that maybe this will mark a time in which I will be the strong one, I know, that I want to do it. I knwo that I will do it and I know that this IS growing up. This will make me into a better person.
And though my mother has told me it is a tragedy for her and that she is tired of bearing the burden, and though the social stigma can and will be painful I can loose no respect or love or awe of her. She is human and a wonderful human.
I wanted to write my pain here, my resentment and all those little things I wanted to scream to her last night. "I hate you" "I needed your support tonight and you betrayed me" "You have hurt me more than anyone ever could" "I HATE YOU". I wanted to write how horrible it was to sleep by her side because she had demanded that I do so, that she demanded me to hear her complaints and her pain, that she kept whispering that I HAD to stay awake becuase she might die because of the sleeping pills. The terror, the pain, the impossibility of a second alone with myself to simply cry for MY pain.
I have written them. But they are not as important as all the rest.
My mother is a soft spoken woman. And I am thinking, of all the possible scenarios witha mexican mother this was a beautiful one in all its purity. In all its honesty. Because I won't stop trusting my mother and I won't hate her. She is a soft spoken beautiful human being. She has raised me and loved me and I will be with her.
It is not my fault I must repeat to myself in this next days. It is not my fault I told her last night. Because I have never and will never fear the social barriers and the prejudice. They don't frighten me. My friends know and love me, my friends understand and know of this from long ago. I am not afraid.
She is and this pain is for once HER problem. For once I will have a breath of peace and knwo that I have done all I could.
I've had this window opened and ready almost two hours now and the words simply refuse to form. Maybe becuase I am still slightly afraid, becuase I am still gathering and forming and holding this resolve to me. Perhaps because there are so many things to say today, so many things and so different that I know not what to say first.
Something worth writing happens every single day of your life, something extraordinary, spectacular and beautiful. Something... worth writing.
Life has been blissfully calm these last few months and I have struggled to find the meaning in that calm, to find it's own particular light. Now I have something, something that is painful and harsh and ugly to write about.
I have a girlfriend. Her name is Marissa. Do I love her? Not particularily. I like her very much, I enjoy laughing and spending time with her. But what made me say "yes" this Fiday to the "Are you dating?" questions was a far more selfish reason. I wanted to know. I wanted to experiment. I've been considering bisexuality for a long time now, some two years I think. I've never actually had a girlfriend, never kissed a woman and never particularily desired any of my close friends.
This is harshly enough, an experiment, one that I was happy to make. With that feeling of accomplishment and hope I told my mother.
It didn't come out as a surprise to her, my doubts hadn't been a secret and she had never even given me a clue of what this would do to her.
She was griefed, she was in pain, she told me I had shattered her heart. It did not happen at the same time but through the night she made it perfectly clear.
My mother isn't a prejudiced person. She has gay and bisexual friends and loves and respects them. My mother is a rational womand and I always thought a strong one. Whenever someone was wrong in this house it was almost exclusively me. I was the wild one, the irrational one. I was the young thing that had much to learn about the world and herself.
In years this is the first time that my mother has been dead wrong, has been unjust and horrible, has been weak and disappointed me. And at the same time it wasn't. I love her, and though it hurts me that maybe this will mark a time in which I will be the strong one, I know, that I want to do it. I knwo that I will do it and I know that this IS growing up. This will make me into a better person.
And though my mother has told me it is a tragedy for her and that she is tired of bearing the burden, and though the social stigma can and will be painful I can loose no respect or love or awe of her. She is human and a wonderful human.
I wanted to write my pain here, my resentment and all those little things I wanted to scream to her last night. "I hate you" "I needed your support tonight and you betrayed me" "You have hurt me more than anyone ever could" "I HATE YOU". I wanted to write how horrible it was to sleep by her side because she had demanded that I do so, that she demanded me to hear her complaints and her pain, that she kept whispering that I HAD to stay awake becuase she might die because of the sleeping pills. The terror, the pain, the impossibility of a second alone with myself to simply cry for MY pain.
I have written them. But they are not as important as all the rest.
My mother is a soft spoken woman. And I am thinking, of all the possible scenarios witha mexican mother this was a beautiful one in all its purity. In all its honesty. Because I won't stop trusting my mother and I won't hate her. She is a soft spoken beautiful human being. She has raised me and loved me and I will be with her.
It is not my fault I must repeat to myself in this next days. It is not my fault I told her last night. Because I have never and will never fear the social barriers and the prejudice. They don't frighten me. My friends know and love me, my friends understand and know of this from long ago. I am not afraid.
She is and this pain is for once HER problem. For once I will have a breath of peace and knwo that I have done all I could.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
In the beginning
My father woke me up today, he was on the phone.
All day the wind has been a constant presence, it sways the great tree behind our house and makes the wind bells ring, eerily prophetic. There is a sort of haziness now, to the gardens, both front and back, a certain golden halo of sunlight that encompasses the bushes and grass and wood of the deck. I went to look at the flowers because I'm thinking of the midnight garden I want to make. I wanted roses but ours are not as particularily glorious as the other ones I'd found around the neighborhood. I was looking for that brilliant coral red in small buttons, but I found more. Violets and blues and deep crimsons in strange and beautiful shapes.
It seems I have entered a creative rampage. I grabbed the old sketches and colored them and got rid of the ones I don't really want. I'm looking through the two magazines I own, looking for something, anything that might catch my attention. I don't feel much like writting now and therefore I come here to force the writting out. To recount the deeds of the day.
I'm still in my pijamas and it's 7 pm, I have been awake since 12. I am listening to HIM and I am thinking of doing a pairing portrait, unsure of how to proceed with the man's face.
I look out the window, a crack between the white linen of the curtains, the gold has exploded into an irradescent glow this afternoon and I feel much too lazy to get up and take a bath which I should do. I don't feel too keen on staying home today, maybe I feel like calling someone. I feel strangely detatched.
My paints and sketches and other things are strewn all over the floor as the room darkens. There is a point in the day when you cease to notice the passage of time, you are suspended and every minute is very much like the next. You seem a picture frozen it time. It only happens in weekends, because the afternoon moves breathetakingly fast.
I stop the music, the world suddenly echoing of singing birds, the light is coming from the west. If I go to the kitchen door it will open into a strange vast view of the world, eternal and beautiful like the Great Garden. It's strange to think that it once was like that, that it was the cities and not the gardens that were contained.
I've been thinking of God as always. For someone who claims not to believe in the Big One I spent entirely too much time thinking about him. I was thinking about him in a strange Jungian line of thought. I was thinking of how each of us is a world contain, how it is the individual view the only one we can see and therefore it is the only truth. Are we God's Truth then? We are his world, made in his image so therefore he must have an internal Truth, unlike the world around him. Are we that then, a reflection, a flash of intuition, an imagined world in the flicker of some ancient's eyes?
There, I have gone full circle, I wasn't thinking of echoing the Revelations of the Dark Mother but I did.
I feel like showering now, wrapping this last up and getting ready maybe for dinner or a movie or something. Boredom. I should work on things pending.
Tomorrow we go see the whales maybe.
My father woke me up today, he was on the phone.
All day the wind has been a constant presence, it sways the great tree behind our house and makes the wind bells ring, eerily prophetic. There is a sort of haziness now, to the gardens, both front and back, a certain golden halo of sunlight that encompasses the bushes and grass and wood of the deck. I went to look at the flowers because I'm thinking of the midnight garden I want to make. I wanted roses but ours are not as particularily glorious as the other ones I'd found around the neighborhood. I was looking for that brilliant coral red in small buttons, but I found more. Violets and blues and deep crimsons in strange and beautiful shapes.
It seems I have entered a creative rampage. I grabbed the old sketches and colored them and got rid of the ones I don't really want. I'm looking through the two magazines I own, looking for something, anything that might catch my attention. I don't feel much like writting now and therefore I come here to force the writting out. To recount the deeds of the day.
I'm still in my pijamas and it's 7 pm, I have been awake since 12. I am listening to HIM and I am thinking of doing a pairing portrait, unsure of how to proceed with the man's face.
I look out the window, a crack between the white linen of the curtains, the gold has exploded into an irradescent glow this afternoon and I feel much too lazy to get up and take a bath which I should do. I don't feel too keen on staying home today, maybe I feel like calling someone. I feel strangely detatched.
My paints and sketches and other things are strewn all over the floor as the room darkens. There is a point in the day when you cease to notice the passage of time, you are suspended and every minute is very much like the next. You seem a picture frozen it time. It only happens in weekends, because the afternoon moves breathetakingly fast.
I stop the music, the world suddenly echoing of singing birds, the light is coming from the west. If I go to the kitchen door it will open into a strange vast view of the world, eternal and beautiful like the Great Garden. It's strange to think that it once was like that, that it was the cities and not the gardens that were contained.
I've been thinking of God as always. For someone who claims not to believe in the Big One I spent entirely too much time thinking about him. I was thinking about him in a strange Jungian line of thought. I was thinking of how each of us is a world contain, how it is the individual view the only one we can see and therefore it is the only truth. Are we God's Truth then? We are his world, made in his image so therefore he must have an internal Truth, unlike the world around him. Are we that then, a reflection, a flash of intuition, an imagined world in the flicker of some ancient's eyes?
There, I have gone full circle, I wasn't thinking of echoing the Revelations of the Dark Mother but I did.
I feel like showering now, wrapping this last up and getting ready maybe for dinner or a movie or something. Boredom. I should work on things pending.
Tomorrow we go see the whales maybe.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
The Hours
Virginia Woolf is something that passed from my mother to me, a woman that frightens her and inspires me. The kind of writer I want to be. Becuase she built new beautiful things, becuase in so many ironic ways she is a writer of light who spent some great parts of her life in shadows. It's amateurish this reflection, it's simple, but it comes from a detail I remember from the biography I read of this woman. That when she and her sister Vanessa Bell left the parental home they made a house flooded in light.
Light is there for me, now that I do not find darkness. Light floods my life as I stand today of all days in the deck of my backyard. The world is golden with sunlight. I draw, I make I gather beauty from the world around me, from Kyle who sits besides me in Psychology and shares my distaste of disrespectulfness. From that class and history in which I soak in the ages past and the Civil Rights Movement and the Middle East of today. I learn I see I am alive.
What defines me? Writing, yes but something else and it si my capacity for the analysis and the individual thought, becuase I take things within me. i take the world within me. I called myself an impressionist once, someone who captures the light in the leaves of how I see them. That is what I do with my writing, what I shall always do, even when as now I do not need the escape so much that I would die without it.
Watching a movie reminds of the old days, nostalgic and melancholic yes but not nearly as distressing as fear and anticipation. I relish this remembrance. It makes me, it defines me into a person, it tells the story of who I am.
I've been there done that gotten through. I know what it's like to hide in a bathroom so that no one will hear you cry and more than brutality this is the greatest pain, more than any other it is to close your eyes and conform your pain and your anguish to the wishes of others.
But I also know, know now and here, what it is to close your eyes to a brilliant sun, what it is to take in the pungency of flowers everyday, every second of your life. I know what it is to look out the giant windows of the art studio and stare, stare at the canopy of trees in the distance and think, how beautiful, how right everything is. You walk through the streets and stop becuase the grass is a brilliant green and becuase there are roses, gorgeous luscious roses everywhere. And it is the midnight garden and the desire again to make and celebrate this life.
I told my mother, I want the good and the bad, I want strenous gushing streams of it. I want the dark in my life to see the light better. I want this moment, to embrace this moment, to take in all I did, all I talked about. I want to enjoy everything and everyone and I want to make beauty of this happiness.
God, it seems we have come full circle and I can see the pain and that strange dark hole overpowering the people I love, this is for me as much as it is for you. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel, there is always life, there is a moment when everything will make sense even though the moment fades.
There is always a way out.
Virginia Woolf is something that passed from my mother to me, a woman that frightens her and inspires me. The kind of writer I want to be. Becuase she built new beautiful things, becuase in so many ironic ways she is a writer of light who spent some great parts of her life in shadows. It's amateurish this reflection, it's simple, but it comes from a detail I remember from the biography I read of this woman. That when she and her sister Vanessa Bell left the parental home they made a house flooded in light.
Light is there for me, now that I do not find darkness. Light floods my life as I stand today of all days in the deck of my backyard. The world is golden with sunlight. I draw, I make I gather beauty from the world around me, from Kyle who sits besides me in Psychology and shares my distaste of disrespectulfness. From that class and history in which I soak in the ages past and the Civil Rights Movement and the Middle East of today. I learn I see I am alive.
What defines me? Writing, yes but something else and it si my capacity for the analysis and the individual thought, becuase I take things within me. i take the world within me. I called myself an impressionist once, someone who captures the light in the leaves of how I see them. That is what I do with my writing, what I shall always do, even when as now I do not need the escape so much that I would die without it.
Watching a movie reminds of the old days, nostalgic and melancholic yes but not nearly as distressing as fear and anticipation. I relish this remembrance. It makes me, it defines me into a person, it tells the story of who I am.
I've been there done that gotten through. I know what it's like to hide in a bathroom so that no one will hear you cry and more than brutality this is the greatest pain, more than any other it is to close your eyes and conform your pain and your anguish to the wishes of others.
But I also know, know now and here, what it is to close your eyes to a brilliant sun, what it is to take in the pungency of flowers everyday, every second of your life. I know what it is to look out the giant windows of the art studio and stare, stare at the canopy of trees in the distance and think, how beautiful, how right everything is. You walk through the streets and stop becuase the grass is a brilliant green and becuase there are roses, gorgeous luscious roses everywhere. And it is the midnight garden and the desire again to make and celebrate this life.
I told my mother, I want the good and the bad, I want strenous gushing streams of it. I want the dark in my life to see the light better. I want this moment, to embrace this moment, to take in all I did, all I talked about. I want to enjoy everything and everyone and I want to make beauty of this happiness.
God, it seems we have come full circle and I can see the pain and that strange dark hole overpowering the people I love, this is for me as much as it is for you. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel, there is always life, there is a moment when everything will make sense even though the moment fades.
There is always a way out.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Fields of Innocence
I stand in the wind, with a wish to remember all that I have lost. There was a moment when smiles were real, there had been a time when I knew love and it knew me in return. I close me eyes to the sunlight I feel the gray descending, like a great bird it tears through the sky and flaps its monstrous wings to erase all that had come before. When? When had I been happy and had dreams? Why am I so afraid to return to that which I know as familiar? Where have all the illusions gone? When did I grow up?
More importantly, where do I go now? Where do my tired feet head if I feel so old even now? I have been through flame and come out into the rain, blessed rain.
Everyone seems to be going somewhere but me. They are all approaching their great destinies. Everyone has a dream… everyone has something to do. Why does God not give me a purpose? Why is the world rushing ahead? I am suspended in this dream of brilliant colors where nothing can ever possibly go wrong. What will become of me when I step back into the stream?
Do you still love me? I touch my face and feel it’s tension. Do you still love me? Lorena, Adrian, Andrea… What have I become? Where am I? Will you still love me when I am back? How do I find the place I left? Will I hate when I am back? Will I be miserable in school and at home? Will I be in pain as I was? Will I hate you as I did sometimes? Or will the half-hearted absence make us drift? How do I find my old life…
I haven’t started and I feel as if all is done already. Nothing is new, nothing is special. Where is my passion, where is the will to go on and the focus for the mind? When did the truth leave my tongue? It seems there are no more tales tonight, there are no more leaves to fall, there is only the wind and it tears at my flesh. Why go on? When all the great plans are futile lies why go on? I am not in pain I am happy… but it’s empty, everything is empty.
I stand in the wind, with a wish to remember all that I have lost. There was a moment when smiles were real, there had been a time when I knew love and it knew me in return. I close me eyes to the sunlight I feel the gray descending, like a great bird it tears through the sky and flaps its monstrous wings to erase all that had come before. When? When had I been happy and had dreams? Why am I so afraid to return to that which I know as familiar? Where have all the illusions gone? When did I grow up?
More importantly, where do I go now? Where do my tired feet head if I feel so old even now? I have been through flame and come out into the rain, blessed rain.
Everyone seems to be going somewhere but me. They are all approaching their great destinies. Everyone has a dream… everyone has something to do. Why does God not give me a purpose? Why is the world rushing ahead? I am suspended in this dream of brilliant colors where nothing can ever possibly go wrong. What will become of me when I step back into the stream?
Do you still love me? I touch my face and feel it’s tension. Do you still love me? Lorena, Adrian, Andrea… What have I become? Where am I? Will you still love me when I am back? How do I find the place I left? Will I hate when I am back? Will I be miserable in school and at home? Will I be in pain as I was? Will I hate you as I did sometimes? Or will the half-hearted absence make us drift? How do I find my old life…
I haven’t started and I feel as if all is done already. Nothing is new, nothing is special. Where is my passion, where is the will to go on and the focus for the mind? When did the truth leave my tongue? It seems there are no more tales tonight, there are no more leaves to fall, there is only the wind and it tears at my flesh. Why go on? When all the great plans are futile lies why go on? I am not in pain I am happy… but it’s empty, everything is empty.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
I only write here when the feeling is indefinite, when something that has been nagging within me is reaching out for the open, I only write here when I am giddy with words as I am giddy with music now.
Something bothers me, and it's the inminent threat of return to Mexico. What will I do there, when it is here that I have learned to be at peace? What will I do back in my cage with my father and the implications of friendships and chats long overdue? What will I do there with myself? How do I live... how do I talk and see and feel? How do I return to the place I called home?
Almost three years ago th epain in my life was so great and so omnipresent that I wanted simply to disappear. Not to die but to not be me at the time. I wanted to run from everything and everyone run as fast as my feet could carry me into some other place, some other world that would have the purity of solitude. I said to myself, take me away God, send me far far away from this place that causes me so much pain.
I dreamt of France and Greece, places I could live alone with no one to know what had been of me before. No one to question the shame or the doubt or the person I had been. I dreamt of the chance to start anew.
Santa Cruz has been that, at a time when I was ready to embrace it. It has been a wonderful beautiful exhalerating new chance to discover life and the beauty of the human spirit, of all that is me and all that surrounds me. It has been not a journey perhaps but more of a quiet moment under some great swaying tree, somewhere I can sit and rest from life.
I'm going to try and draw now. My mom is away in Santa Barbara at a congress and I am alone at home... it shows. I went out today becuase staying alone at hoem would have simply been too much. I went out with Gin and met Maya at the cinema. I bought art stuff I hope I can use now, I bought myself a new bag and I was happy and had fun.
How much more of this? How many more afternoons like this one or the other ones at Daniel's house? How much more can I take of this creeping fear that when I go back misery will return to my arms?
I don't feel like crying, it's just a cringing disatisfaction, just a feeling of anticipation and things I cannot quite control. I am struck in a strange place a strange crossroads... what do i do with myself now?
How do I live?
Something bothers me, and it's the inminent threat of return to Mexico. What will I do there, when it is here that I have learned to be at peace? What will I do back in my cage with my father and the implications of friendships and chats long overdue? What will I do there with myself? How do I live... how do I talk and see and feel? How do I return to the place I called home?
Almost three years ago th epain in my life was so great and so omnipresent that I wanted simply to disappear. Not to die but to not be me at the time. I wanted to run from everything and everyone run as fast as my feet could carry me into some other place, some other world that would have the purity of solitude. I said to myself, take me away God, send me far far away from this place that causes me so much pain.
I dreamt of France and Greece, places I could live alone with no one to know what had been of me before. No one to question the shame or the doubt or the person I had been. I dreamt of the chance to start anew.
Santa Cruz has been that, at a time when I was ready to embrace it. It has been a wonderful beautiful exhalerating new chance to discover life and the beauty of the human spirit, of all that is me and all that surrounds me. It has been not a journey perhaps but more of a quiet moment under some great swaying tree, somewhere I can sit and rest from life.
I'm going to try and draw now. My mom is away in Santa Barbara at a congress and I am alone at home... it shows. I went out today becuase staying alone at hoem would have simply been too much. I went out with Gin and met Maya at the cinema. I bought art stuff I hope I can use now, I bought myself a new bag and I was happy and had fun.
How much more of this? How many more afternoons like this one or the other ones at Daniel's house? How much more can I take of this creeping fear that when I go back misery will return to my arms?
I don't feel like crying, it's just a cringing disatisfaction, just a feeling of anticipation and things I cannot quite control. I am struck in a strange place a strange crossroads... what do i do with myself now?
How do I live?
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Threat rating: High. The Bush administration is
concerned that it may not get a second term.
Therefore, we are going to change the rules so
that each Democrat vote only counts as 0.2
votes because Democrat is a shorter word than
Republican
What threat to the Bush administration are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Neighborhood
Today I, unable to catch Virginia on the way out of schoo I resigned myself to walk home. Not an hour ago I was stopped by one of our neighbors who was watering his garden. I had often before stopped by his garden to pet his cat.
We talked for some time, mostly he did, I stood in the cold spring sunlight listening in awe. He had lived in Sata Cruz since he was born. He was 58. He could remember our street when a large part of it was still pasture. His house and mine and some three others had been built by the same architect. He spoke Japanese fluently and a few words of Spanish. There were other languages but I did not catch them. He had been a professor at the UCSC and married to a Japanese-American linguist who my mother probably knows.
It was a pleasure talking to him.
I also found a girl from my Art Class on the bus from school. We talked a bit about the surrealist proyect.
Virginia said I was popular because I knew so many people.
And it struck me with a sudden force that I did. That my life had changed so mucho and that I have had not a single all consuming passion for a long time. i have had not ONE single type of friend but many. I have Gin and Marissa and Justin and I have Maya P and Maya B and Adam and I talk to all the people in my classes and I am not... alone.
What will I do when I get back to Mexico? I want to! I need to... but I don't want to loose this. I don't want to focus all attention on one group. I want the friends I treasure, those who understand me the most and no who I am but I also want people with whom I can simply chat idly and have a drink or to. I want to be on good terms with those around me and be able to not find any particularily disgusting fault in them. I want this... but I want my other life too.
Gin's English teacher asked us a favour. A friend of hers will interview us for her Psychology College Class Study, because she wanted an interview of two friends from different upbringings. Gin and me couldn't have been more different...
Somehow this fills me with joy.
And I'm going to set up a World of Darkness chronicle for Marissa and Justin and Colin and Daniel and ...
I have no words.
Today I, unable to catch Virginia on the way out of schoo I resigned myself to walk home. Not an hour ago I was stopped by one of our neighbors who was watering his garden. I had often before stopped by his garden to pet his cat.
We talked for some time, mostly he did, I stood in the cold spring sunlight listening in awe. He had lived in Sata Cruz since he was born. He was 58. He could remember our street when a large part of it was still pasture. His house and mine and some three others had been built by the same architect. He spoke Japanese fluently and a few words of Spanish. There were other languages but I did not catch them. He had been a professor at the UCSC and married to a Japanese-American linguist who my mother probably knows.
It was a pleasure talking to him.
I also found a girl from my Art Class on the bus from school. We talked a bit about the surrealist proyect.
Virginia said I was popular because I knew so many people.
And it struck me with a sudden force that I did. That my life had changed so mucho and that I have had not a single all consuming passion for a long time. i have had not ONE single type of friend but many. I have Gin and Marissa and Justin and I have Maya P and Maya B and Adam and I talk to all the people in my classes and I am not... alone.
What will I do when I get back to Mexico? I want to! I need to... but I don't want to loose this. I don't want to focus all attention on one group. I want the friends I treasure, those who understand me the most and no who I am but I also want people with whom I can simply chat idly and have a drink or to. I want to be on good terms with those around me and be able to not find any particularily disgusting fault in them. I want this... but I want my other life too.
Gin's English teacher asked us a favour. A friend of hers will interview us for her Psychology College Class Study, because she wanted an interview of two friends from different upbringings. Gin and me couldn't have been more different...
Somehow this fills me with joy.
And I'm going to set up a World of Darkness chronicle for Marissa and Justin and Colin and Daniel and ...
I have no words.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Not sure what I am...
I jsut remembered something. Something I read once. That if you do not give from the heart you draw nothing from the heart of others. I suppose that marks the dissatisfaction with my writing of late. That I haven't committed as I did before with works like Faust and Nora's Letter. I have poured small doses of my soul into the things I am doing, not the whole overwhelming stream as happened with Elaine.
But I don't know, even with cool calm technique I manage to please myself if subtly. I was rereading the chapters of Ghenna Opened and they are not as bad as I remember.
One would think that so much free time this last week would have given me but a second to spare here. I should have come earlier and not left it for the last rushed days of holiday, where we seek, desperately rest and relaxation. I've been sleeping and not-worrying and I suppose that rests me more than anything else could.
We start school again on Monday and though I think wistfully of all the free time to write and create I have been bored enough to welcome it cheerfully.
I am tired now and thinking of the time wasted that I should be using for writing. Tomorrow I go back to homework and the brief snatches of moments for my personal things.
I jsut remembered something. Something I read once. That if you do not give from the heart you draw nothing from the heart of others. I suppose that marks the dissatisfaction with my writing of late. That I haven't committed as I did before with works like Faust and Nora's Letter. I have poured small doses of my soul into the things I am doing, not the whole overwhelming stream as happened with Elaine.
But I don't know, even with cool calm technique I manage to please myself if subtly. I was rereading the chapters of Ghenna Opened and they are not as bad as I remember.
One would think that so much free time this last week would have given me but a second to spare here. I should have come earlier and not left it for the last rushed days of holiday, where we seek, desperately rest and relaxation. I've been sleeping and not-worrying and I suppose that rests me more than anything else could.
We start school again on Monday and though I think wistfully of all the free time to write and create I have been bored enough to welcome it cheerfully.
I am tired now and thinking of the time wasted that I should be using for writing. Tomorrow I go back to homework and the brief snatches of moments for my personal things.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Just to prove what everyone has known all along...
Ulaenyth is your Vampire name.
You are the ultimate evil Vampire. World
domination is not just a goal for you, but a
near-reality. You have killed Humans for doing
less than coughing in your company.
To use your new Vampire name and become a Vampire,
go here:
www.life-blood.vze.com
What is your Vampire name?
brought to you by Quizilla
Ulaenyth is your Vampire name.
You are the ultimate evil Vampire. World
domination is not just a goal for you, but a
near-reality. You have killed Humans for doing
less than coughing in your company.
To use your new Vampire name and become a Vampire,
go here:
www.life-blood.vze.com
What is your Vampire name?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thursday, March 25, 2004
A journey I just don't have a map for
There was a point in my life when nothing was worth my time anymore. It sounds familiar yes? Even cliched? It sounds so like the children we are that it makes others smile in derision?
You do not know, you cannot remember what it was. I do, all too clearly. I remember so much that I can see the telltale signs in those I love. I can feel them sinking slowly in self-pity and anguish and it's real. We don't invent that. It happens.
How can I tell you, how can I possibly describe to you what it feels like to be crawling with shards of yourself dislodging your belly? How can I tell you what it is to know that there is no light and no end of the tunnel? That is the worst. The point when you lay on the floor of your room not asking for anything, not wanting anything, just thinking, letting the tears pour down and thinking... if I do this will they care? Will any of them truly care?
The inevitable answer: I don't know. By God I wish the answer was NO because that would be so much easier to deal with.
There was a point in my life when nothing was worth my time anymore. It sounds familiar yes? Even cliched? It sounds so like the children we are that it makes others smile in derision?
You do not know, you cannot remember what it was. I do, all too clearly. I remember so much that I can see the telltale signs in those I love. I can feel them sinking slowly in self-pity and anguish and it's real. We don't invent that. It happens.
How can I tell you, how can I possibly describe to you what it feels like to be crawling with shards of yourself dislodging your belly? How can I tell you what it is to know that there is no light and no end of the tunnel? That is the worst. The point when you lay on the floor of your room not asking for anything, not wanting anything, just thinking, letting the tears pour down and thinking... if I do this will they care? Will any of them truly care?
The inevitable answer: I don't know. By God I wish the answer was NO because that would be so much easier to deal with.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Crash And Burn
For my friends and family, for those who have stood behind before or besides me in hard times and in happiness. Thank you. Thank you Mom, Andrea, Adrian, Joel and Lorena. Thank you Millie. Thank you for breaching your way into my life and soul. Thank you Marina for staying up and talking. Thank you Cesar and Sebas and Alan for making me laugh and being my friends. I wish I could have written this for you but I didn't, and though you may think it stupid and sentimental it's for you.
When you feel all alone
And the world has turned it's back on you
Give me a moment please
To tame your wild wild heart
I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you
It's hard to find reliefe and people can be so cold
When darkness is upon your door
And you feel like you can't take anymore
Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone
When you feel all alone
And a loyal friend is hard to find
You're caught in a one way street
With the monsters in your head
When hopes and dreams are far away
And you feel like you can't face the day
Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone
For my friends and family, for those who have stood behind before or besides me in hard times and in happiness. Thank you. Thank you Mom, Andrea, Adrian, Joel and Lorena. Thank you Millie. Thank you for breaching your way into my life and soul. Thank you Marina for staying up and talking. Thank you Cesar and Sebas and Alan for making me laugh and being my friends. I wish I could have written this for you but I didn't, and though you may think it stupid and sentimental it's for you.
When you feel all alone
And the world has turned it's back on you
Give me a moment please
To tame your wild wild heart
I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you
It's hard to find reliefe and people can be so cold
When darkness is upon your door
And you feel like you can't take anymore
Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone
When you feel all alone
And a loyal friend is hard to find
You're caught in a one way street
With the monsters in your head
When hopes and dreams are far away
And you feel like you can't face the day
Let me be the one you call
If you jump I'll break the fall
Lift you up and fly away with you into the night
If you need to fall apart
I can mend a broken heart
If you need to crash then crash and burn you're not alone
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Colour Blind
My period is killing me. I am in so much pain and have had no desire whatsoever to do homework or anything in the least productive, maybe I'm just lazy. The day seemed to mimic my mood, with it's grey tint and it's stinging cold. Pain makes me feel vulnerable, but perversely, ironically it also makes me feel like a woman. More desirable if I can be fragile, more beautiful if I do something that all woman do, so passionately as I do everything.
Pain is a cleanser. It means something, something important. It means something that is so clear and undebiable that it makes me as afraid as I will ever be. It has always been so, since I was a child I was afraid of dying in pain.
I called my father today and it made everything a lot better. It made things good again to feel like I can take the step myself, that I can stop being a child and give up the fight. We actuallt talked, he told me things and it was good, it was very good. I don't want to stop calling him, becuase it suddenly made me feel liek he wanted me to call or maybe it doesn't matter whether he wants me or not, but that he must have me because whichever way I am still his daughter. He must still love me. Some way.
He does, he is careless and I am certain. A certainty. But he does.
I don't have much to add except that it is getting late and I have finished only one homework assignment. At least I should get the art review over and start the Psychology thing. And get up not so late tomorrow. Mmmm... maybe some coffee, yes.
My period is killing me. I am in so much pain and have had no desire whatsoever to do homework or anything in the least productive, maybe I'm just lazy. The day seemed to mimic my mood, with it's grey tint and it's stinging cold. Pain makes me feel vulnerable, but perversely, ironically it also makes me feel like a woman. More desirable if I can be fragile, more beautiful if I do something that all woman do, so passionately as I do everything.
Pain is a cleanser. It means something, something important. It means something that is so clear and undebiable that it makes me as afraid as I will ever be. It has always been so, since I was a child I was afraid of dying in pain.
I called my father today and it made everything a lot better. It made things good again to feel like I can take the step myself, that I can stop being a child and give up the fight. We actuallt talked, he told me things and it was good, it was very good. I don't want to stop calling him, becuase it suddenly made me feel liek he wanted me to call or maybe it doesn't matter whether he wants me or not, but that he must have me because whichever way I am still his daughter. He must still love me. Some way.
He does, he is careless and I am certain. A certainty. But he does.
I don't have much to add except that it is getting late and I have finished only one homework assignment. At least I should get the art review over and start the Psychology thing. And get up not so late tomorrow. Mmmm... maybe some coffee, yes.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Prince of Stories
I am very tired, exhausted almost. It's entirely due to lack of sleep and the overwork. But it's worth it, every second of my life is worth it at this point, I love, caress and possess every instant with the crystal clear clarity of no regrets. I don't look for a future but I sit and wait. I do things and somehow regain a control, a decision, a crucial point in which I can say and I will do. I haven't had for long, much too long.
I went to the UCSC library with my mother after school today. Things like this, like yesterday, things that set my mind to thinking of what I will be doing in three years time. I began thinking about my thesis, about how am I going to get into college. Doing research on this Mental Illness program has been much like a thesis I think, because I've chosen such a specific theme.
And I can't write, I have completely lost the thread of my writing. Christ this is so frustrating. I am going to cry and I don't know why. I'm trying to think, to say something meaningful, about me, about what is going on in my life and my dad won't hear, becuase he sends my emails back with a three line response when I'm happy. Because he can't be bothered.
My mother IS bothered, she gives me the time of her day and her ear when I am talking about prejudice against mentally ill such as sociopaths. And she will take me to flamenco and to the nude model classes... and hell she lives with me. She loves me.
Oh father father, why can we not watch the flower trees together? Do you love me father? People are shocked when they hear it, when they hear me shout for you like this. He loves you, they always do, they just don't know how. But I doubt. What can you want of me? What can you think when you receive my mails? What do you want from me? What do I do to make you proud? To make you love? what do I do to make you my father like you were before? What do I do to have your eyes,breath, yous love, and soul and everything that echoes?
Because I am the only daughter you will ever have, but you don't want me.
I was going to try to interpret Mari's dream, but I'll just tell her tomorrow.
I'll call you Dad and I will write to you now. You do not destroy me even if you bring me tears. I am as happy as I was, as willing as always. You do nothing... and it hurts.
I am very tired, exhausted almost. It's entirely due to lack of sleep and the overwork. But it's worth it, every second of my life is worth it at this point, I love, caress and possess every instant with the crystal clear clarity of no regrets. I don't look for a future but I sit and wait. I do things and somehow regain a control, a decision, a crucial point in which I can say and I will do. I haven't had for long, much too long.
I went to the UCSC library with my mother after school today. Things like this, like yesterday, things that set my mind to thinking of what I will be doing in three years time. I began thinking about my thesis, about how am I going to get into college. Doing research on this Mental Illness program has been much like a thesis I think, because I've chosen such a specific theme.
And I can't write, I have completely lost the thread of my writing. Christ this is so frustrating. I am going to cry and I don't know why. I'm trying to think, to say something meaningful, about me, about what is going on in my life and my dad won't hear, becuase he sends my emails back with a three line response when I'm happy. Because he can't be bothered.
My mother IS bothered, she gives me the time of her day and her ear when I am talking about prejudice against mentally ill such as sociopaths. And she will take me to flamenco and to the nude model classes... and hell she lives with me. She loves me.
Oh father father, why can we not watch the flower trees together? Do you love me father? People are shocked when they hear it, when they hear me shout for you like this. He loves you, they always do, they just don't know how. But I doubt. What can you want of me? What can you think when you receive my mails? What do you want from me? What do I do to make you proud? To make you love? what do I do to make you my father like you were before? What do I do to have your eyes,breath, yous love, and soul and everything that echoes?
Because I am the only daughter you will ever have, but you don't want me.
I was going to try to interpret Mari's dream, but I'll just tell her tomorrow.
I'll call you Dad and I will write to you now. You do not destroy me even if you bring me tears. I am as happy as I was, as willing as always. You do nothing... and it hurts.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Red Sky In the Morning
Just answered a second mail from my dad telling him a lot about what is going on here with me and that I will call him on Friday. He's sending me a birthday present (money obviously).
Homework catching up on me, sneaking behind my shoulders and now I suddenly have time for nothing (not even writing here or answering private mail which I am doing anyway). I should be finishing my art review or doing sketches or just tinkering with the St. Patrick's day things. And into all this I want to squeeze in the nude model sessions on Mondays, courtsey of my beautiful wonderful art teacher.
Not only that but it seems I have to remember more often that it's only me and my mother taking care of this house and that I have to clean my room myself and order it around and fold my clothes. I did all that this week, just now the room. It takes a good mood and work. At least my room is livable now. It'll be easier to work in it. And all of this makes me think of the time when I will be alone and making a home for myself. I know I will be alone at some point becuase I want to try it, somehow I find the solitude alluring, not without firends but living by myself. And Millie says loneliness can kill, I believe, but solitude is different I would like to think.
I am listening to the Amelie soundtrack, an old french song by some lady. It reminds me of dinners at my Grandfather's house. There was a mystery then, something that obssesses me even now. Soemthing that lined my childhood in mahogany and leather. Something that spoke to me of wine glasses and secret passages and the giant portrait of a girl that was of my blood. That I could describe what it was growing up in a house were the echo of your footsteps and the shadow of your reflection could become a ghost in some tragic tale. How to describe the place were there was a fountain to build a world upon, an empty fountain to sit in and have fun and pretend to clean. Don't get me wrong, I loved it but I did not love them as I did the myth and the world they had made. I grew up in a pretend romance, in the small caricature my fmaily held together. I loved it and despised it when it fell apart.
Somehow they built my sense of beauty, they built my sense of intellect, they built what would be my reading career. My mother, she built my life.
I'm done with reading Lord of the Flies. It was good, not a favorite but I find it an incredible work nonetheless. There were some very frightening parts and it was masterfully written, very clear and yet beautiful also. Maybe I'll read more of Golding.
From talking to Marina.
How to describe it for you? When you make things, when you build, you finish eventually. Then you walk away and build something new, or sit in contemplation of what you have done. When you birth a character you and her do the same; there is a point in which you look back, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes, and you behold what you have made. The character will breath, she will give a great sigh and say "It's over now. It is accomplished", perhaps she will go on. We all go on, one way or another, because history slips under us like some great shinning bird. What you have written then shapes intself into a meaning, something that your character has told you. It is her life up til then and the imagining of what a future may hold.
I have made a statement. I have said what war and hate does to a child, but I also say, that there is a chance for recovery. My character has spoken to me, she has taken her breathe and plunged back into the richness of life to find a safeguard for herself.
I come to myself, I find her beautiful.
Just answered a second mail from my dad telling him a lot about what is going on here with me and that I will call him on Friday. He's sending me a birthday present (money obviously).
Homework catching up on me, sneaking behind my shoulders and now I suddenly have time for nothing (not even writing here or answering private mail which I am doing anyway). I should be finishing my art review or doing sketches or just tinkering with the St. Patrick's day things. And into all this I want to squeeze in the nude model sessions on Mondays, courtsey of my beautiful wonderful art teacher.
Not only that but it seems I have to remember more often that it's only me and my mother taking care of this house and that I have to clean my room myself and order it around and fold my clothes. I did all that this week, just now the room. It takes a good mood and work. At least my room is livable now. It'll be easier to work in it. And all of this makes me think of the time when I will be alone and making a home for myself. I know I will be alone at some point becuase I want to try it, somehow I find the solitude alluring, not without firends but living by myself. And Millie says loneliness can kill, I believe, but solitude is different I would like to think.
I am listening to the Amelie soundtrack, an old french song by some lady. It reminds me of dinners at my Grandfather's house. There was a mystery then, something that obssesses me even now. Soemthing that lined my childhood in mahogany and leather. Something that spoke to me of wine glasses and secret passages and the giant portrait of a girl that was of my blood. That I could describe what it was growing up in a house were the echo of your footsteps and the shadow of your reflection could become a ghost in some tragic tale. How to describe the place were there was a fountain to build a world upon, an empty fountain to sit in and have fun and pretend to clean. Don't get me wrong, I loved it but I did not love them as I did the myth and the world they had made. I grew up in a pretend romance, in the small caricature my fmaily held together. I loved it and despised it when it fell apart.
Somehow they built my sense of beauty, they built my sense of intellect, they built what would be my reading career. My mother, she built my life.
I'm done with reading Lord of the Flies. It was good, not a favorite but I find it an incredible work nonetheless. There were some very frightening parts and it was masterfully written, very clear and yet beautiful also. Maybe I'll read more of Golding.
From talking to Marina.
How to describe it for you? When you make things, when you build, you finish eventually. Then you walk away and build something new, or sit in contemplation of what you have done. When you birth a character you and her do the same; there is a point in which you look back, the wind tugging at your hair and clothes, and you behold what you have made. The character will breath, she will give a great sigh and say "It's over now. It is accomplished", perhaps she will go on. We all go on, one way or another, because history slips under us like some great shinning bird. What you have written then shapes intself into a meaning, something that your character has told you. It is her life up til then and the imagining of what a future may hold.
I have made a statement. I have said what war and hate does to a child, but I also say, that there is a chance for recovery. My character has spoken to me, she has taken her breathe and plunged back into the richness of life to find a safeguard for herself.
I come to myself, I find her beautiful.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Wise Child
Calm days. My mother has the car at last and we spent a good weekend enjoying the commodity. I fortunately bought clothes I needed and feel much better about dressing in the morning. It's funny how I felt so cheerful about the shopping, I used to be miserable everytime I had to get new things, especially underwear. It's another sign that I feel better with myself, that things are nicer and somehow working out despite everything. And the bras I had were falling to pieces already becuase I was much too cheap to actually go get some for myself. It's the sort of thing my dad would do, how annoying.
Speaking of which, I answered his mail at long last. I think I will keep writing to him, probably send him my St. Patrick's Day Card along with everyone else. I just don't want to keep acting like I child. I should call him or he will not call me. My birthday is fast approaching and perhaps it might be a good one. I know he'll call me on that day, but I haven't asked him about the money and I don't think he sent any extra for my Birthday.
Oh well.
I've been in an inspirational mood and writing a bit more than I had. Well to begin with I took up with the blog again and that's something, even if I do fill it up with innanities.
We're studying personality disorders for psychology and I took up sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder) as my pet proyect. As I read on it became disturbingly clear that my character Dante fitted the type. It hurts me that he does because I love him as part of myself, a part that cannot be bothered, that doesn't care, that knows what is wrong, that is disgusted. It's childish of me to want to redeem him now I have made him this monster, becuase I cannot rest with him the way he is as I could not rest were he to remain happy. Nothing fits Dante, nothing contents him or contains him. Is he another empty vessel for his God? I know he knows what I'm thinking.
Dante knows God loves him, becuase from God comes all love and all life and all light. He knows and he cannot accept it, why should God love him?
Usually the first emotion sociopaths began to exhibit during therapy is depression. I said that could eplain why he is so miserable with Lucius. Dante did not find a shrink, he found God. Dante knows there is something deeply wrong with him and it disturbs him. It's part of his character to be disturbed. Because he's lived with himself for so long and it unsettles him that others don't, the world around him cares and regrets.
It fascinates him.
Dante loved Lucius because he was all Dante was not. He was human in so many ways, and man was made in the image of God.
Someday this week I have to run to the UCSC library and get a couple of books for my psychology report. I should be able to begin writing it tomorrow. I started with the art review on Ana Mendieta. I was very young when I saw the exhibition of her work at the Art Appriciation class. I sensed some of the tragedy through the photos and the story the teacher told us. I knew she'd died like that somehow. Fallen through the great window, maybe murdered, maybe suicide.
I think her work spoke of that, in each faceless gesture, in the minutes of shabby film, in the shaky lines of red ink over leaves. Her work spoke of fragility, of mortality, of some terrible horrible secret in the foster homes.
Speaking of art. White Wolf is closing, already declared bankrupcy. Probably Joel has a better detail of everything. I have just let the steam go but I still want to write that I hate this. I hate the fact that the authors and artists and masterminds will disband and that there will be no more World of Darkness. Their books are beautiful, they are more than just a game. They serve as ecellent history books and beautiful artwork collections, they are novels and short stories and plays and verything, just everything.
They gave birth to Knossos...
Well it's too late to keep rambling and I should go to sleep now that I can...
Calm days. My mother has the car at last and we spent a good weekend enjoying the commodity. I fortunately bought clothes I needed and feel much better about dressing in the morning. It's funny how I felt so cheerful about the shopping, I used to be miserable everytime I had to get new things, especially underwear. It's another sign that I feel better with myself, that things are nicer and somehow working out despite everything. And the bras I had were falling to pieces already becuase I was much too cheap to actually go get some for myself. It's the sort of thing my dad would do, how annoying.
Speaking of which, I answered his mail at long last. I think I will keep writing to him, probably send him my St. Patrick's Day Card along with everyone else. I just don't want to keep acting like I child. I should call him or he will not call me. My birthday is fast approaching and perhaps it might be a good one. I know he'll call me on that day, but I haven't asked him about the money and I don't think he sent any extra for my Birthday.
Oh well.
I've been in an inspirational mood and writing a bit more than I had. Well to begin with I took up with the blog again and that's something, even if I do fill it up with innanities.
We're studying personality disorders for psychology and I took up sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder) as my pet proyect. As I read on it became disturbingly clear that my character Dante fitted the type. It hurts me that he does because I love him as part of myself, a part that cannot be bothered, that doesn't care, that knows what is wrong, that is disgusted. It's childish of me to want to redeem him now I have made him this monster, becuase I cannot rest with him the way he is as I could not rest were he to remain happy. Nothing fits Dante, nothing contents him or contains him. Is he another empty vessel for his God? I know he knows what I'm thinking.
Dante knows God loves him, becuase from God comes all love and all life and all light. He knows and he cannot accept it, why should God love him?
Usually the first emotion sociopaths began to exhibit during therapy is depression. I said that could eplain why he is so miserable with Lucius. Dante did not find a shrink, he found God. Dante knows there is something deeply wrong with him and it disturbs him. It's part of his character to be disturbed. Because he's lived with himself for so long and it unsettles him that others don't, the world around him cares and regrets.
It fascinates him.
Dante loved Lucius because he was all Dante was not. He was human in so many ways, and man was made in the image of God.
Someday this week I have to run to the UCSC library and get a couple of books for my psychology report. I should be able to begin writing it tomorrow. I started with the art review on Ana Mendieta. I was very young when I saw the exhibition of her work at the Art Appriciation class. I sensed some of the tragedy through the photos and the story the teacher told us. I knew she'd died like that somehow. Fallen through the great window, maybe murdered, maybe suicide.
I think her work spoke of that, in each faceless gesture, in the minutes of shabby film, in the shaky lines of red ink over leaves. Her work spoke of fragility, of mortality, of some terrible horrible secret in the foster homes.
Speaking of art. White Wolf is closing, already declared bankrupcy. Probably Joel has a better detail of everything. I have just let the steam go but I still want to write that I hate this. I hate the fact that the authors and artists and masterminds will disband and that there will be no more World of Darkness. Their books are beautiful, they are more than just a game. They serve as ecellent history books and beautiful artwork collections, they are novels and short stories and plays and verything, just everything.
They gave birth to Knossos...
Well it's too late to keep rambling and I should go to sleep now that I can...
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | Low |
| Schizoid: | Low |
| Schizotypal: | High |
| Antisocial: | Low |
| Borderline: | Moderate |
| Histrionic: | High |
| Narcissistic: | High |
| Avoidant: | High |
| Dependent: | High |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | Moderate |
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! -- | |
Saturday, March 13, 2004
You can be me when I'm gone
It is a good thing to keep one's eyes open all day long... is it? Becuase one's strength laxes and is nothing by the evening an even sitting upright writing this takes herculean effort.
I went to Ginnia's today and laughed and talked and drew and felt more strangely at home than I've ever felt since I got here. We goofed, talked of affinities, we talked of a deep strange rooted problem and what we think of people. We discuss God. It can happen, and I am thankful that we both have the capacity to look and accept for this beautiful thing that our friendship is. I am grateful to have a person with whom I cna paint a wall and discuss a book and tell stories, I am glad to have her here in my arms near me, becuase it makes the silence easier.
We come into this world alone, we leave alone and all love and friendship is a lie we build to escape this awful loneliness.
We are discussing phobias, mental illness in psychology, we are finding meaning. Because the loneliness of Death frightens us so we make meaning, we make goodness. We make Gods.
It's not a new thought obviously. "Beautiful man who made God in his image" It comes along in the introduction for Gaiman's story collection Book of Dreams. I shall love Mrs. Catherine Frankee who was a not so great teacher but an incredible friend for that book. I shall remember always. I shall try.
Millie and Andy and Adrian and Mari and Joel, I love you, because somehow we have made a connection, I said it months ago when I was so frightened I wanted only to crawl in a little hole and shrivel up.
I'm happy now. I can make beauty still. My beauty goes for you, my firends and mother. Whatever it is, whatever I o I do from and for everyone. An most above all for myself.
It is a good thing to keep one's eyes open all day long... is it? Becuase one's strength laxes and is nothing by the evening an even sitting upright writing this takes herculean effort.
I went to Ginnia's today and laughed and talked and drew and felt more strangely at home than I've ever felt since I got here. We goofed, talked of affinities, we talked of a deep strange rooted problem and what we think of people. We discuss God. It can happen, and I am thankful that we both have the capacity to look and accept for this beautiful thing that our friendship is. I am grateful to have a person with whom I cna paint a wall and discuss a book and tell stories, I am glad to have her here in my arms near me, becuase it makes the silence easier.
We come into this world alone, we leave alone and all love and friendship is a lie we build to escape this awful loneliness.
We are discussing phobias, mental illness in psychology, we are finding meaning. Because the loneliness of Death frightens us so we make meaning, we make goodness. We make Gods.
It's not a new thought obviously. "Beautiful man who made God in his image" It comes along in the introduction for Gaiman's story collection Book of Dreams. I shall love Mrs. Catherine Frankee who was a not so great teacher but an incredible friend for that book. I shall remember always. I shall try.
Millie and Andy and Adrian and Mari and Joel, I love you, because somehow we have made a connection, I said it months ago when I was so frightened I wanted only to crawl in a little hole and shrivel up.
I'm happy now. I can make beauty still. My beauty goes for you, my firends and mother. Whatever it is, whatever I o I do from and for everyone. An most above all for myself.
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